It may have been 1952
They might have been holding hands
There are graves no grass goes near
It's the conscience of the house
We will measure the earth and the seas
CANDLE
The tongues of tramps and itinerants
A parade of ambulances
We are building factories to make chains
While they are putting in the stitches
Some of the houses are shrinking
The blood of good men shining
We're alive. Isn't that enough?
Whatever makes the world go round
I forget. Who won the war?
After the kids had gone to bed
Twenty-Six Acacia Avenue
A boy who learned italics
Brickies, Plumbers, Short-Story Writers
A fair few cobwebs
It probably weighed two ounces, three
Just like that, Poof!
The moving finger writes, followed closely by Tippex
It may have been the South of France
These are better children, plump, juicy
Better a half-truth than lie, both better than quiet
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